A Dream of Spring on a Winter's Night
by Alexandra Lyman
Summary: My contribution to the Tumblr Captain Swan Secret Santa, a fic that is neither Christmas themed nor festive. A wintery, melancholy Enchanted Forest AU, where Captain Hook is stuck in port during a snowstorm and whiles away the evenings at the Lone Swan tavern.


Snow blankets the harbour, heavy white flakes that had been falling without pause for almost five days and made a wet, slippery mess of the Jolly's deck. Some of the younger crewmen had even held an impromptu snowball fight, tossing them back and forth from the foredeck to the aft until he had appeared from below and roundly expressed his displeasure at such childish roughhousing aboard his ship.

The memories of Neverland and boys who never grew up had soured him on such silly games.

They were stuck in port until the weather cleared, the ocean was choppy and grey and the visibility too poor to try to make their way back out into the open water. His vengeance would have to wait, but he'd bided his time for far longer and there was nothing to be done except to batten the hatches and ride out the storm.

Captain Hook was a scoundrel of the highest order, but he was also a patient man.

The wind cuts like a knife and he hunches his shoulders in the heavy leather of his coat and lifts his collar in a vain attempt to keep it out. The cold sank into his skin and went right down to his bones, a fitting companion to the ice that had already filled his heart. He trudges along the damp wharves, boots sinking into the heavy drifts with hand and hook shoved deep inside his pockets as he makes his way towards the tavern where he'd whiled away the hours and fortified himself with drink over the last few nights. The stone building was tall and narrow, yellow candlelight shining through the windowpanes and spilling out into the street whenever the door was shoved open by a stumbling drunk, illuminating the sign that hung above the lintel for a brief moment before it swung back into place. _The Lone Swan_ was written around a crude depiction of the water fowl in question, head tucked under it's wing.

He is not the only one summoned here tonight to seek a moment of warmth amidst the frozen grasp of another long winter, the rough-hewn tables are all packed and there's not an inch of space available at the long, scrubbed bar. But his face and form are well known and when he flicks impatient fingers at two longshoremen with snow melting on their shoulders and dark tar under their nails they immediately stand and cede him their seats. The curve of the hook gleams dark, and the point is kept sharp and ready at all times as more than one unlucky soul in this port town has already learned.

Hook wonders how cold the metal would be to the touch after the long walk in the snow, if it would freeze the skin in a heartbeat and leave behind a jagged scar should he try to touch anyone with his namesake.

There are a few women in the tavern, offering what can't be found from the heat of the fire or the burn of the liquor. Soft curves and hard eyes, easy virtue and shrewd negotiations. It's cold outside and the lure of a warm bed with a warm body is a potent one. Money changes hands under the tables and the newly formed couples disappear to finish their transactions in the rooms upstairs. The tavern is not really a brothel, but money is money and the proprietess takes her cut and turns a blind eye so long as everyone remains discreet about the exact nature of their business.

She spots him not long after he enters, and is at his table with a bottle of rum in hand, not the rotgut, but the good stuff, he'd made his preference clear the first night he came in and she hadn't forgotten. A single glass is set down next to it and she accepts his silver coin with a nod of her head and a, "Good evening, Captain."

He nods back while she pulls the cork and pours his drink.

She leaves the bottle on the table when she goes.

He'd made that preference clear as well.

The tavern is run as tight as a ship and he approves, she handles drunken men with a deft but firm touch that speaks of long experience at such thankless tasks. A wandering hand is plucked off her hip and she's at the next table before the one who sought to take such liberties can even blink, and an incipient fight is warded off with the sudden appearance of a knife pulled from between bodice and skirt and casually pressed to the throat of the instigator with a soft entreaty for the man to sit down and quietly finish his ale.

The man is drunk but he's no fool, and he does what she says.

The wind howls outside and the rum slips down his throat with ease, warming his belly and keeping his ghosts somewhat at bay. His first visit to the Lone Swan had ended in the bed of a woman with dark hair and a face he had already forgotten, a quick tumble between rough sheets followed by a cold and bitter walk alone back to the Jolly. She had asked him to stay, all coy smile and fluttering lashes, but he never does. Milah is long dead, but her face is still carved indelibly on his heart as her name is writ on his arm and the warmth he finds in another woman's arms is always fleeting, gone as soon as it (and he) came.

Frost builds thick on the glass and the crowd begins to thin, men heading out into the snow heavy with drink and lighter in the purse. The tavern-keeper comes around again to wipe down tables and collect empty tankards, a few errant curls escaping from the knot of golden hair at the back of her head and falling down loose on her white neck. He hears one of the remaining customers make crude advances, a low whisper and a hand curling tight around her slender wrist. The hook lays cold against his thigh and he feels himself tense, ready to come to her aid should the need arise. But to his surprise she turns coquettish, and accompanies the man towards the staircase that leads upstairs with her tongue poking from between pouting lips and a hand toying with the edge of her bodice. The man closes his eyes and leans in for a kiss, only to have his cloak thrust into his arms and the door shut in his face instead when she shoves him through it. She flips the latch and ignores the pounding that comes from the other side, and Hook dips his head to hide his smile.

"Last call," she declares with a clap of her hands, waking the ones who had passed out in their cups.

He makes his way towards the bar with the rum bottle swinging from his hand. It is still nearly three-quarters full, he'd only been in a sipping mood tonight and had no interest in sharing, preferring to eschew feminine companionship and drink alone. He slides it towards her and she looks down at it and then back up at him.

"You paid for the whole bottle, Captain, and there are no refunds in my establishment."

"Keep the coin, milady, as well as the rum."

She puts down the glass she was polishing and pours a healthy measure, tossing it back with ease and offering a hint of a grin.

"I shall put the rest aside for you tomorrow, then."

Tomorrow the snow might cease and the winds might turn favourable, and if it does his quest will begin anew with the tide. But he finds that he almost wishes to return, to stamp out the path back to the plain wooden door and faded sign again, to let vengeance fall by the wayside for those few hours. It's a dangerous thought, if he stays idle for too long then the rolling bloodlust might fade and dim away to nothing and the long years spent battling a demon with the temperament of a spoilt child would have all been for nought. Captain Hook must set sail, straight on til he finds his elusive quarry and bests him at last.

Only then, perhaps, would Killian Jones be able to rest.

The last straggler stumbles out the door and suddenly it's only the two of them left. She sweeps behind the bar and blows out the candles one by one until the only light left is a single long taper. He makes no move to leave and she makes no move to usher him out, though he has made no advance and she has not made an offer there is an understanding that has settled between them as the snow settles in drifts outside the door. The cold seeps into the now empty room but he follows the warmth of her candle up the stairs and into the chamber she unlocks with an iron key produced from the depth of her pocket. A fire is kindled in the hearth, the work of an unseen maid, no doubt, the bed is made neatly and everything is clean and shipshape. But the room is spare, with little insight to offer about the life of its occupant.

He lays his coat aside over the back of the chair while she pulls out her hairpins with a quick twist of her fingers. The fall of gold hangs nearly to her waist, a glimpse of the sun in the middle of a winter's night. Her eyes are the green of new leaves, that promise of spring when the ground begins to thaw and the world comes back to life. Neverland had been nothing but unending summer, heavy and humid with not a moment of relief, and he can't recall the last time he breathed clear spring air. She moves towards him with purpose, hands landing on his chest and head tipping back to look up at him. The movement pulls the end of her necklace free from where it had lain hidden under the folds of her blouse, and he rubs his thumb over the worn charm of a swan threaded on the delicate chain. The skin of her shoulder is just as delicate, when he pulls the blouse aside and kisses her there. His fingers sweep down her back and curl around her hip, pulling her to him as he makes his way up her throat. Her hands are not idle, one burrows in his hair and nails scrape against his scalp while the other wraps round his waist and pulls his shirt from his trousers.

They drift apart for a moment and come back together, lips meeting at last. Her mouth is warm and willing, he can feel the lick of the flames at his back from the fire and the growing heat in his groin from her presence. His belt hits the floor as he sweeps into her mouth, nipping lightly at her bottom lip and tugging her blouse down with his hook. She gasps a little and pulls back, looking down at the gleaming metal nestled dark in the valley between her breasts.

"Sorry," he mutters, lifting his wrist.

She catches the hook with the tip of her finger, holding it and him in place.

"It's a little cold, is all. But it will warm up, I'm sure."

He gapes a bit at that as she pulls him back towards the bed and he follows, letting her divest him of his clothing until he's more bare in front of a woman then he's been in weeks, months, _years_. He's good with his fingers, and better with his tongue, and most don't seem to notice or care that he usually leaves his trousers on and only loosens his shirt when he beds them. But not the Swan girl, though she makes no move to unbuckle the straps that holds his brace to his arm, and for that he is grateful.

Her own skin is pale, as pale as snow but so warm under his single hand. There are faint marks across her belly, the remnants of a time when it was once heavy and swollen. Though there is no hint of anyone else in the spartan room he'd lived with a childless mother for years, he knows the signs. She sighs and slips her fingers through his hair when he kneels on the bed and spreads her thighs apart, kissing just below her navel and then moving lower. What he finds there is warmer still.

She's still shuddering when he lies on top of her and sheaths himself in a neat thrust, tasting herself on his tongue when she pulls his head down for a kiss. One small hand settles on his arse and the other finds his hook again, sliding down his arm to urge his wrist up from where he had it buried in the bedclothes as far away from her as he could get.

"See? Told you so."

Her smile is pleased and with her words he is lost, pressing her into the bed and snapping his hips in a quick rhythm that she welcomes with legs spread wide around him and warm breath urging him on in his ear. The heat between them is blazing, sweat trickling down his spine to pool at the small of his back. His movements grow more rough and desperate and she matches him with an upward tilt of her hips, heels digging into the soft flesh just below the curve of his buttocks. The candle has long since burned out and the fire died down to embers, in the dark he can no longer tell where he ends and she begins.

Maybe he doesn't want to tell, either.

Afterwards she sleeps with her head tucked under her arm and he sits on the edge of her bed, scrubbing his hand over his face. She didn't ask him to stay and he never does, but the walk back to the Jolly is a cold and lonely one, and dangerous at this time of night. Even for Captain Hook himself.

More dangerous to stay, to press himself to her bare back and share the warmth on a winter's night and let himself dream not of blood and revenge, but of the coming of spring at last.

He stays.


End file.
